


aristos achaion

by andioop101



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Song of Achilles Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Inspired by The Song of Achilles, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Possessive Behavior, Protective Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Trojan War, but don’t worry it’ll be a while, dream as achilles, george as patroclus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-29 00:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30148281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andioop101/pseuds/andioop101
Summary: The story of Patroclus and Achilles told through the lives of George and Dream with some DSMP elements.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	aristos achaion

**Author's Note:**

> i recently finished reading the song of achilles and simultaneously had dnf brainrot which led to this hot mess.  
> this story will also be using elements from the movie Troy, and the original story of the Iliad.  
> all rights to The Song of Achilles go to Madeline Miller :] I highly recommend the book!  
> enjoy <33

  


As the smoke settled around George, the brunet had scarce minutes to reflect on what had brought him to the last moments of his life. Soldiers jeered around him, screaming his name;  _Dream’s name_.

“ _Get up_!”  They shouted, not being able to comprehend how the great _ Dream  _ had finally met his match. However it was not Dream himself that was in Dream’s royal armor, but George, and he could no longer feel his own legs.

He weakly looked up to see the prince Wilbur approaching, his spear sharpened with murderous intent in his eyes. The evil smirk on his face made George feel sick to his stomach.

_  
What have I done.. Dream will never forgive Sapnap for helping me. _

  


There was no way out of this. His plan, seemingly fool-proof, had failed exceptionally.

  


_ Dream will kill Wilbur after all this and ensure his own death by doing so. I have done the one thing I swore myself never to cause. _

  


George didn’t realize he had begun to cry until he felt a wetness on his cheeks. The helmet on his head felt heavy now, rather then before when it made him feel unstoppable. Wilbur’s condescending laughter filled his ears.

“So this is the  _ aristos _ _achaion,_ greatest of all Greeks?” His voice filled with disbelief. “Look at him now! Brought to his knees now in front of me, and his very own men.” 

As George fell back, his tiredness finally catching up to him, there was nothing left for him to do but look up to the sky and pray to the heavens. Pray that his actions won’t cause Dream’s downfall, but deep down George knew that Dream would never recover.

Wilbur had now reached him, his spear drawn back, seconds away from finally striking.

  


_ Oh Dream.. just know this was no one’s fault but my own, I’m so sorry. _

  


As Wilbur’s spear finally came down, George could almost see bright blue skies and hear the crashing of waves, pulled back into the world he was in where this all began, when he first met the enchanting young prince of Phthia. 

  


  


  


  


  


  


Back many years in his own kingdom, George was the eight year old heir to the throne, and a disappointment to his father.

When George was born, his father nor mother were ever involved. When George was only five his mother had died of a unknown illness, leaving him alone to his father. He managed, and as George grew up inside the castle walls as the years past, he realized he was much different compared to the other boys of his kingdom.

When they wanted to play games with him, George refused almost every time. The only times he ever participated was when his father quite forced him to. He had the reputation of a distant, and cold-mannered young prince, leading the other boys to start to create crude rumors about him.

His appearance didn’t help either. George for one was tiny. Practically petite. He had no muscles, no height to his name, and it did nothing for his self esteem. In fact, George was often teased for his girly appearance. Wide hips, a tiny waist, with a feminine face; brown eyes framed with long dark eyelashes, he looked nothing like what a strong, powerful southern Greek king should look.

His father was constantly made aware of this. Many of the lords in his court joked about him having a fair princess for a son rather then a future warrior.

“You might as well start inviting other kings to come and court the young boy!” The men would laugh. 

“Is he any good with his hands?” Another would tease.

These jokes only caused the king to become more irrationally angry with his son. Unlike George, King Menoetius was the epitome of what a true warrior king should look like. Burly and tall, ruling his people with an iron fist. 

The king knew that if he did not start training his son to become a strong candidate for the throne, their kingdom would forever become a laughing stock.

Whether George truly cared about this conclusion was a secret only he knew.

  


The day George turned ten was the day his entire life changed.

The morning had started off with celebration, George receiving presents from his father and a semi-warm embrace. He had also received the present of two finely carved dice. George had intended to take his newly-gifted dice up to his room andcome up with games to play with them _alone._ Perhaps he might even let one of the kind servants have a turn on them.

He had just started to play when his father had come in.

“George, what are you doing up here all by your lonesome?”

George had looked up then, already annoyed that his father had bothered his activities.

“I’m just playing with my new dice, father.” He answered shaking them in front of him.

“Well why don’t you take your new dice into town and find some other boys to play with? Perhaps even a girl?”

George scrunched his nose at this, “A _girl_ ?”

“Yes a _girl_!” The king chortled. “Why don’t look so disgusted, if all goes well, four more years and you might even be married yourself!”

George let out a sigh. It was true, many of the boys in his village did get married around the ages of fourteen, made fathers by fifteen. George knew it was expected of him, but he had never found an appeal in chasing the girls down at the harbor like the other boys did. Their sweet smell only made him feel sick. Their smiles filled him with dread rather than butterflies.

George didn’t even have a good experience with girls. Many of them treated him like a girl himself, and what was George meant to achieve with that? 

“Do I really have to?” He whined.

His father’s patient expression quickly turned to one of anger.

“George you are the heir to this throne.” He spoke sternly. “You will be treated as if you are a jester rather than a powerful king if the men of this kingdom don’t respect you! I need you to become the man you are destined to be. Do not disappoint your father anymore than you already have.”

The face George’s father gave him virtually dared George to argue back. George decided today that it wasn’t worth the fight. He especially didn’t want to risk the taking away of his new, shiny dice.

  


  


So, George gathered his things and went on his way to the appeasement of the king. He figured he could simply hide away somewhere for the day to come back by dinner and make up a story to his father of playing with some random village boy. 

As George walked, he admired the landscape of his kingdom. It was truly serene. He suddenly felt pity at not being able to experience the salty air and green grass as much as he could have, but memories of being teased and ridiculed by the other boys despite being the literal crown prince pushed those desires back.

After a bit of walking, George had found himself a semi-hidden dugout a little ways from the shore. The floor was made up of rocks, with random tuffs of grass spread out in between. As he made himself comfortable, he quietly got back to what he had started in his room. Shaking the dice he smiled as he found comfort in the the simplistic game. 

A peaceful-like tranquility fell upon George as he repeatedly shook his dice, playing for the two cubes to read the same exact numbers. It was peaceful enough until he heard footsteps approaching him.

Immediately looking up for the source of the noise, his eyes fell upon a boy around his age. He recognized the boy almost instantly as one of the culprits who would constantly tease and ridicule George. George felt his anger prickling as the boy got closer.

The boy’s eyes slowly fell upon the dice clutched in George’s hands. The boy then held out his own hand,

“Let me see them.”

George’s mouth opened in shock, in which he closed it back up in embarrassment. Who did this boy think he was?

“No.” George answered, admittedly with venom laced in his tone.

This only seemed to anger the boy, he would not take no for an answer.

“I _said_ let me see them!”  The boy insisted with more urgency.

“They are mine!” George snapped back, patience completely gone.

The boy then stepped forward once again, leaning to take them as George shoved him right back, a proud smirk gracing George’s features. 

“Hey!” If the boy looked angry before, he looked absolutely furious now.

George couldn’t help but grin, he was finally standing up for himself!

The boy took notice to George’s sense of victory and decided to pipe up,

“Well don’t look so proud of yourself, you barely budged me. I mean look at the size of your muscles,” He said while gesturing to George’s body, “they’re the size of a girl’s!”

George felt his skin go hot. The familiar taunt only making him angrier.

The boy laughed as he noticed how upset the comment made the young prince. 

“You don’t know anything, you’re just a- just a-  _village idiot_! ” George screamed in frustration. 

The boy raised his fist at that, “What did you just say to me?”

George gulped. He knew what was to happen next. As he prepared to take the hit he imagined his fathers voice in his head.  _Coward_.  George shook the voice out of his head as he planted his feet on the ground. Surely a simple push would do the trick? George than planted his hands on the boy’s chest and shoved,  _hard_.

The boy let out a choked noise of surprise as his head collided against the rocky floor. George had not realized what he had done until the ground around him started to bleed.

George stared, unable to speak words as he looked in horror at the scene in front of him.

The boy laid there, head and face mangled, taking gasping breaths of air as his eyes stayed trained on the prince. George did not dare to move until the boy stopped twitching and the smell of his body began to draft through the air.

  


  


George immediately began his way home, dice long left behind, running faster than he had ever ran his entire childhood. His loud sobbing alerting the people as he ran by, unable to look back.

When the soldiers eventually found him he was lain against a tree; gasping and crying, pale and sickish, looking just about ready to vomit all over the grounds.

His father stood above him, his face a mix of contorted emotions as he gestured the servants to bring him inside.

  


  


Of course the boy’s parents had eventually showed up. In stormed his father with a red face, screaming for George’s father as the boy’s mother clutched the man’s arm, choking on sobs.

In their kingdom it wouldn’t have mattered if George had killed a daughter. Daughters are easily replaced. But George had killed a son, an  _ eldest _ son at that. 

The boy’s parents demanded penance. They screamed and argued for George’s own death, “ _An eye for an eye_!”  while the king tried to calm them into negotiation.

Eventually they had come to the agreement of exile. George would be sent to a nearby kingdom to be fostered by the king there, in exchange for his weight in gold and other trinkets.

While the neighboring king would gain wealth and another boy, George would lose the right to use his family name and the chance to ever see his father again.

He would have no influence, no wealth, no  _ family. _ George almost preferred death. 

Alas, his father was a practical man. He knew it would cost less to send his son cross-seas to another man than to pay for the funeral it would take to bury George.

It was settled. George packed his few belongings the next morning and was ushered out to the soldiers that would be taking him to his new home. 

Before he left, George was summoned before the king. His father stared down at him with an expression he thought was pity. However, George could see a trickle of relief in his eyes. He felt his heart break.

“You will be just fine.” The king finally sighed. It was the last words his father ever spoke to him.

  


This was how he had came to be an orphan at the age of ten. This was how he had came to Phthia. This was how he had came to meet Dream.

  


  


Phthia was neither larger nor as extravagant as George’s kingdom was, it’s simplicity and modesty apparent. George couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction that his own kingdom was much more appealing, before bitterly remembering that his “kingdom” was no longer his anymore. 

The journey there had been long and lonely. Distant memories of blood against grass kept George up at night, and in the day he was left only to his miserable thoughts of missing home.

As he was led inside, George took notice of the architecture that surrounded him. Extravagant carvings of pure white marble were new to him, not being familiar with this sort of material back in the south.

George also took notice to how much _he_ stood out. All of the servants and maids bustling around him had an unfamiliar tawny-olive complexion in contrast to his much more paler appearance. Their eyes were also lighter, along with their locks of hair. George suddenly found himself feeling a kind of embarrassment about his dark brown eyes and equally dark curls.

George was unsure where he was being led, but ultimately assumed he was going to be introduced to the man who would uphold his fostering, King Peleus. As he turned to one of the soldiers leading him, he was in fact told the opposite.

“King Peleus is absent today, you will present yourself before his son instead.” the soldier gruffly answered.

George now felt a sense of fear. This was not at all what he had prepared for. The hours he had spent donkey-back practicing the princely lines he would declare to the king were now thrown out the window. 

George could barely remember King Peleus’ son, only having a few fogging memories of him. It was back a couple years, in his home kingdom.

  


  


  


That very year, George’s father had been lucky enough to be chosen to host the annual games at their kingdom. Men from all over Greece had traveled for the chance to compete for glory. 

George had not competed, in fact he didn’t even try to. He had been seven years of age at the time, and in no means ready to compete with even the youngest division. His father had been disappointed by this, but hardly put up a fight.

George had instead spent the games sat next to his father; a garland sat waiting in his lap ready to be rewarded to the winner, looking upon the now ready boys lined up, preparing to win the competition. 

As he looked upon the gathering of boys, one specific person had caught his eye.

Upon closer inspection, George recognized him not to be just any boy, but rather the young prince of Phthia, Dream.

George had been subjected countless times to the rampant rumors about the fellow prince, mostly from his jealous father. How the boy had the blood of a powerful sea goddess running through his veins, how his agility and strength out-powered even the strongest warrior, and only at the striking age of George’s own, seven. 

Boys around his kingdom were constantly gossiping in awe of how many men the boy would be able to slay when he was to become the greatest warrior of the Greeks.

_”Probably thousands!”_

When George heard of these rumors, he could only question their absurdity.

“ _What is a man if he is only to be measured by how many other men he can kill?”_ George  remembered asking his father.

His father had merely scoffed, insisting that George could only dream of becoming half the man the prince of Phthia would become.

  


The prince’s hair was long and blonde, a striking contrast to the boys surrounding him. He was also much shorter, and still had the face of childhood in a way the other boys did not. 

George found himself unable to take his eyes off the prince, as the boy stood stolidly, an expression of utmost seriousness gracing his handsome face.

George’s staring was interrupted when the priest of the competition promptly struck the ground, signaling the beginning of the race. 

The prince immediately was off, slipping easily through the other bodies, moving cunningly and quickly, heels flashing as he crossed the finish line. He wins.

George’s father nudges his son expectantly, as the prince of Phthia suddenly walks towards them. George is then made aware again of the garland that had been sitting on his lap as he looks to finally make eye contact with Dream. 

The boy was smiling, his teeth almost blinding. George was momentarily stunned as he looked upon the gorgeous face, reminding him of pure sunshine. 

George faltered as he set the garland upon the prince’s head. 

The boys made eye contact once again as Dream pulled back, a smirk in his eyes. George bristled at that. 

_ Along with his divinity an ego as well... am I even surprised? _

The prince then walked back, garland now crowned on top of his head, to his father, King Peleus, who looked smug and proud.

The two embraced as George looked with a sense of envy. He knew his father was looking too, picturing a world where he didn’t have a girly-boy for a son and a dead wife, but rather a brawny heir and a goddess for a lover.

He then turned to George.

_ “ **That is what a son should be**.” _

George now felt empty without the garland. He watched as the prince tossed the garland into the air, laughing joyfully as the boys around him cheered his name.

_ Dream! Dream! Dream! _

  


  


  


  


Now, George found himself in front of the prince again, under much different circumstances. 

He knew what kind of a picture he must make; dressed in oversized rags, brunet curls sweaty and unkept. Once a powerful prince he stood there kneeling, eyes unable to leave the floor as he heard the prince of Phthia chuckling. 

As George looked up, he took in the appearance of the prince. His past memories did not due him justice. George gaped at the handsomeness the prince presented. 

He had lost the childhood of his features, having outgrown his babyish roundness. His deep-green eyes peered directly into George’s soul; mirth dancing around in them. 

If there was one thing that had not changed about the prince, it was the smirk that adorned his face. This very expression had struck George out of his blatant ogling and replaced it with the growing feeling of dislike. 

The prince then yawned, looking extremely disinterested. 

“What’s your name, ya?” 

George had to hold back the expression of shock his face wanted to make. How dare this prince talk to him like he was some playground fool?

George ground his jaw shut. Refusing to give the prince the answer he seeked. He did not mind letting his anger get the best of him. 

The prince was then pulled out the lounging position he had originally found himself in, now stood up as he spoke again more formally, with a louder tone:

“What is your name?”

George knew he could not ignore the boy again if he wished not to make an offense. The first time could be excused that George had not heard him, but he had to to speak up now if he wished to salvage his first impression.

“George.”

His answer was curt, leaving no chance for discussion. The prince seemed displeased at this. 

“Your accent, I’ve never heard one like it. It’s quite nice.”

George chose to remain silent, holding up his intense staring competition with the ground.

“Look at me.” The prince spoke again, giving up the hope George would try and speak on his own terms.

George jerked his chin up then, in bare acknowledgment. It was easier to play the game of indifference then to let the prince know of his subtle attraction to him. The prince only smirked as he looked into George’s eyes. As George stared longer, almost daring Dream to make another comment, the smirk dropped.

The prince yawned as he laid back once again, arms stretching out above him. 

“I’m prince Dream, son of Peleus. Welcome to Phthia.” 

George quickly stood up and turned to leave, the feeling of anger barley dissipating. He knew dismissal when he heard it.

  


  


  


After his questionable encounter with the Prince Dream, George had found himself taken to a room with several other boys, their ages all ranging. George had not been aware of the knowledge that King Peleus took in so many boys, but he quickly learned that he was not at all amused by it. 

It wasn't that the boys were mean-spirited, on the contrary they had actually been quite welcoming, smiling when George had first walked in, even asking his name.

It was the fact that George didn't _want_ to be the boys' friend. After the traumatizing event that had gotten him exiled in the first place, George did not want to even bother to try and make any friends. He figured he would just toughen it out for the first couple years he had to remain here, constantly avoid the prince at all costs, and then eventually run away with some girl at the ripe age at fourteen in the disguise of making her his wife. 

How he would be able to do that, well that wasn't important. 

  


The days were long and repetitive. Every morning George would wake up in the barracks-style room and then head over with the other boys to front of the palace, where a long hall was used as a room for the boys to have their meals.

The food was as good as it was plentiful, George had been confused at first as to why King Peleus even bothered to feed all of the boys he fostered, but eventually found out that Peleus enjoyed to host and entertain. George had never gotten his proper introduction to the King, but was grateful to the hospitality he received. 

After morning meals, the group of boys were then directed to a set of exercises led by one of the head guards at the palace, an activity George most dreaded.

Back at home, George rarely had to participate in any sort of physical activity. He figured if he wasn't any good at at it, why bother?

But now it was not up to George's jurisdiction. The punishment for not participating in the group runs and duels were severe. One of King Peleus' main hopes in fostering the young group of boys was to train them into becoming fine soldiers, loyal to the crown and their nation's army.

  


One particular day, George had been sat in the corner; where he always found himself, when a boy had approached him. He seemed to be older, and much taller than George. He had a bright, but hesitant smile on his face as he began to speak,

"Hello there, do you want to play a game with us?"

The boy was still smiling, fiddling with his hands. George would be a fool if he said he did not notice the slight flush spread across the boy's cheeks.

George smiled back as he looked over the boy's head, noticing a small group of boys he hadn't seen before that had gathered up together, laughing and making jokes. As George looked closer, his heart almost stopped when he saw a shiny pair of dice roll out of one of the boy's hands.

"Uh-Did you hear me? I asked if you wanted to play?"

The boy's nervous tone suddenly snapped George out of his spiraling. As he looked at the boy once again, he figured there must of been a horrified expression upon his face because the boy's eyebrows had immediately clenched in worry and confusion.

Before the boy could ask anymore questions, George answered abruptly. 

"No." 

George only realized later, when he was tossing around in bed that night what kind of an impression he must of made on the boy.

The boy stepped back in shock, face contorted in hurt, and finally walked off without a word. George hadn't bothered to call after him.

  


  


That was when the rumors began.

George hadn't cared that much initially, but eventually the glares and hushed whispers had started to get to him.

"He thinks he's better than us just 'cause his beauty and past rank, _"_ He had heard the same boy who asked him to play that one day, mutter under his breath.

The other boy that had been talking nodded in agreement, "Someone ought to remind him that he's no _pretty prince_ anymore."

George after that had then found himself dreading _every_ part of his day. Mealtimes he spent alone, sat at the farthest table picking slowly at his food, as the rest of the boys screamed and sang until their throats grew sore. 

Just when George thought it couldn't get any worse, The Prince Dream had started to accompany the boys in the hall and eat his meals with them. It was King Peleus that had suggested earlier to his son that he spend time with the group of boys and get to know them, since the prince would soon be choosing a personal companion from the selection of boys to be at his side and aide him. 

The boys were aware of this upcoming selection as well, swarming around Dream every supper wagging their tails like newborn puppies, constantly fighting each other for Dream's validation and attention. George had been the only one who refused to take his part battling for the exclusive place by Dream's side. He found the other boys' behavior down right embarrassing. 

Dream was mindful of George's refusal to participate. The brunet constantly found himself looking up from his plate of food to get a subtle look at the prince only to realize the prince's eyes were already trained on him. Every time this occurred, George instantly felt his face go hot red, grumbling to himself as Dream only smiled at the other boy's clear annoyance. 

George didn't even understand _why_ he had come to dislike the prince so much. Despite their first official meeting, the prince had done nothing personal to wrong him. Maybe George was just jealous of his strength? Or perhaps how large his muscles were already at the young age of eleven? George jumped at the intrusive thought. _Why was he even thinking about his muscles?_

  


  


George found his only time of peace and quiet had become during the scheduled activities, and it was because George wasn't _at_ said scheduled activities. 

George, after some snooping around, had managed to find a somewhat secluded part of the palace. It was a dark storeroom, a tight-fit, but perfect for a boy hiding from his afternoon drills. As George sat with his knees pressed against jars of thick-pressed olive oil, he heard footsteps approach.

A feeling of fear ran down the boy's spine as the door was forcefully opened. As George looked up, there was Dream, standing above him. The prince looked solemn as his deep-green eyes raked over George's body, regarding the boy's position. The brunet felt himself shiver with guilt and another feeling he could not name. 

"I thought you might be here." The prince finally spoke, voice cold and clear, like ice-melted streams.

George remained silent, afraid of what was to come next. He knew he was not meant to be here.

"I've been looking for you," he said. The words were emotionless, which only scared George more, there was nothing for him to read. "You've been skipping the scheduled activities."

George felt his face flush in embarrassment. He hadn't been as subtle as he thought. However, he also felt a growing feeling of irritation. He knew the prince had the right to chastise him, but it didn't make it any better.

"How would you know? You're not there."

"The soldier directing it noticed, and he spoke to my father. They both aren't pleased."

"And he sent you then." George's arm gestured to the prince, intent on making him feel bad for coming after the brunet.

" _No,_ I came on my own behalf." The prince's voice was less calm now, tightening around the edges. "I overheard them talking and came to see if you were ill."

"You were worried if I was ill?" George couldn't keep the smirk out of his voice. The prince sputtered at that,

"That is beyond the point! You are obviously _not_ ill. You should be more concerned about the fact my father is considering punishment."

The boys both knew what that meant. Corporal punishment consisted of whipping by a master or solider, usually in public in front of the King himself. A prince would never be whipped, but George was no longer a prince. 

"Since you are not ill, you have no excuse." The prince spoke again.

"Excuse?" In George's growing fear, he could not understand the prince's implication.

"The excuse for why you have not been attending activities." He spoke now in a softer tone. "So you will not be punished. What will you say?"

George looked up at him in bewilderment, "I do not know."

"You must say _something."_

The prince's insistence caused George to snap. "Well _you_ are the prince!"

The prince smirked as his head tilted teasingly, "So?"

" _So,"_ George spoke, standing up. "I will speak to your father and tell him I have been with _you._ " He punctuated the last word with a point to Dream's chest. George's surge of confidence seemed to overwhelm Dream, as he stared at the place on his chest George's finger had touched. 

He then looked up again, staring down into the brunet's eyes, "I do not like to lie."

"Then take me to your private lessons," George said with a sly smile. "So it won't _be_ a lie." 

The prince's eyebrows lifted, as he quietly regarded George's request. He was completely still, so still that George feared he had maybe went too far with their banter and stepped out of line.

_What if now, he reports me back to the King and tells him I tried to tempt him out of punishment? God, I should have just kept my mouth shu-_

"Come." The prince's voice snapping George out of his internal dilemma.

"Where?" George asked cautiously, afraid he was now going to be led to the prince’s father.

"Well you wanted to come to my lessons did you not? I have a lyre lesson to be at." 

"Now?"

"Yes _now_ , are you coming or not?" Dream watched him with a curious expression. 

George looked back at the prince, scanning his face for any traces of deceit. When he couldn't find any, the brunet smiled shyly, nodding his head as he went to follow Dream.

George's chest then trilled again with that same feeling he couldn't name. _That_ was an issue for later.

  


  


  


**Author's Note:**

> ( if u couldn't tell Wilbur is Prince Hector ;) )  
> if u recognize this story i deleted the original and reuploaded it again,, combining some chapters and adding a few more details so it flowed better!!  
> im still pretty new to the whole uploading fics and planning them out but hopefully it's smooth sailing from here :]]  
> i promise if you have absolutely no knowledge of the story of achilles and patrolcus and ur looking at this story like wtf is going on,, everything will make sense later :o  
> tysm for reading,, all kudos, comments, and bookmarks are very much appreciated!! they keep me going <33


End file.
